


The Scene Is Dead

by stoplightglow



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Solo Artist Frank Iero, Translation Available, can be read with gabe/mikey if you squint, everyone is sort of an asshole at first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-04 09:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17301821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoplightglow/pseuds/stoplightglow
Summary: Gerard says, “I’m spearheading a new solo alternative project, and you’re perfect for it. I want to record your album.”Normally, this is the part in the conversation where the other person chokes on their drink, or in some unfortunate cases, spits it everywhere. Something more than just staring blankly, certainly. But Frank’s face is completely void of emotion, like he hadn’t even heard what Gerard said.“I’m serious,” Gerard says, just in case that wasn’t clear.“No, I know you are.” Frank is still looking entirely unaffected. “It’s just — who the fuck are you, dude?”





	The Scene Is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> thank you [nat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corruptedkid) for a wonderful beta, and for sending me helpful tumblr posts that made me realize i should just write things despite my dumb brain telling me that they are bad.
> 
> inspired (uh, somewhat) by the film _begin again _.__
> 
> __translation into português by cammyishere available[here!](https://www.spiritfanfiction.com/historia/the-scene-is-dead-15442078)_ _

Gerard looks up from his computer as Mikey peeks his head around the door to his office. “Ray in here?” he asks. 

Gerard, in all honesty, has been staring at demo files for so long that he doesn’t know. He gives the room a quick once-over. Ray isn’t in the corner where he sometimes hunkers down to get in the zone and he’s not by the mixing board, so he must be elsewhere. “Don’t think so. I don’t know. I can’t keep track of everyone.”

Mikey shrugs, ever unconcerned. “It’s cool, he just asked for coffee a while ago and now I can’t find him. I’ll keep looking.”

That’s what Mikey gets for turning every coffee run into a coffee run plus a twenty minute break, Gerard supposes. How he manages to keep his intern position is a mystery. 

“If you can’t find him,” Gerard says as nonchalantly as he can, “you can always bring it back here. I’ll drink it.”

“Yeah, uh huh.” Mikey gives him an exceptionally bored look that definitely means any unclaimed coffee is going to Gabe. If Mikey wants to kiss the boss’ ass, whatever. Gerard will get his own damn coffee. Or make that new Ryan kid do it. 

Mikey’s halfway out the door when he turns back and asks, “Any luck on the solo project yet?”

Gerard stares dejectedly at the screen in front of him, which has dimmed from inactivity. He wiggles the mouse even though he’d really rather let it lapse into darkness. “What the hell do you think?”

“Yeah.” Mikey doesn’t bother with sympathy, thank god. “I figured.”

*

The rest of the workday is demos and emails and demos and pacing around like a caged tiger, and by the time Gerard finally finishes for the night, he’s the only one left in the office. He locks up the building and resists the urge to slam his face into his car’s horn as he drives home. 

Being a record executive isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. 

*

He only finds one suitable solo act by the end of the week, some indie rock singer from Newark. They talk on the phone, and she can hold enough of an interesting conversation that the magazines will like her. Plus, she’s got a look fit for a centerfold. The music isn’t magical, but there’s potential there. At least, Gerard hopes. Gerard really fucking hopes. 

That still leaves two slots left to fill.

God, he needs a fucking drink.

He drives to a bar close enough to his apartment that he’ll be able to get shitfaced and not end up lost on his walk home. It’s a cobbled together, vaguely fifties-themed joint, packed with a weekend crowd that all seem to know each other. They’re laughing and bumping shoulders like old friends under the low light as Gerard walks in. No one so much as looks at him. Gerard doesn’t give a shit, so long as their whiskey’s good. 

Turns out, it is. He finds an empty barstool in the back corner and downs two shots with barely a breath in between. The burn of it is perfect.

The bartender gives him a knowing look. “Tough week?”

Gerard coughs out, “You have no idea,” and orders another.

While he’s waiting, loud microphone feedback rings out through the room and makes him wince. What the fuck? He looks up towards the tiny stage at the front to see a young, bearded guy with mop of blonde hair and a keytar slung around his neck standing there tapping the mic. 

Gerard has about three seconds to connect the dots before the guy opens his mouth and starts to sing. 

Fuck. In his haste, he’d accidentally walked into an  _ open-mic night. _ As if he doesn’t already spend enough of his life listening to shitty, undeveloped music.

A glance towards the door confirms that the place is packed even tighter than before. From where he’s cornered himself, it’ll take a lot of elbowing to get out.

Then the bartender slides a shot over to him, and he decides  _ fuck it. _ It’s not worth the effort, not when his throat is already on its way to becoming numb from the alcohol. He may as well round out his god-awful week with some more god-awful performances.

And the guy with the keytar up there, he’s truly terrible. He sings like he never got the memo that whiny teenage voices went out of style, and his instrumental abilities aren’t much better. Plus, he’s playing “The Final Countdown”.

Gerard orders a beer.

After that, he sits through two bad poets and a decent one, all of them angry about something that Gerard is a little too blurry around the edges to discern. The one good thing is that the crowd begins to thin as it grows later. Deciding that enough is enough, Gerard takes advantage of the opening, sliding off of his sticky barstool. He leans against the bar as he pats himself down for his wallet.

He’s fingering a twenty dollar bill when the quiet strum of a guitar catches his ear, then a light riff. Maybe Gerard’s drunk, or his standards have just dropped so monumentally low, but it actually sounds  _ good. _

He turns forty-five degrees to face the stage, but in the sparse light he can only make out the shadowy silhouette of a man’s profile and fingers curled around the fretboard of an electric. He’s sitting on the edge of the stage with his feet dangling, hunched in on himself like he doesn’t want anyone to watch him. To his credit, hardly anyone is; by this point, the people remaining have reserved their attention for their drinks or who they’re trying to take home.

But Gerard can’t look away.

Then the guy starts to sing.

It’s rough, a melancholy croon that drifts just barely over the turned-down notes of the guitar, and the sound of it sinks into Gerard’s bones. Without much conscious decision, Gerard’s mind begins tracking some backup vocals and bass behind it. And drums right there, maybe, and—

Gerard usually doesn’t find this much talent in a hundred demos put together. But this guy — this guy is something else. He’s playing like it fucking hurts, like if he stops he’ll drop dead. It’s intense. It’s raw. It’s what Dead Pegasus Records’ alternative solo project is fucking missing. 

Gerard needs to talk to him.

But he’s not going to interrupt. He settles back onto the bar stool. He can be patient.

The guy doesn’t say thank you when his set is over, he just looks up into the stage lights and squints like he hadn’t even noticed they were there. Then he gets up, slings his guitar case over his shoulder, and walks off the side of the stage. A few scattered claps follow him as people realize that the music’s stopped. As soon as he’s gone, a girl in a beret with a tambourine takes his place, and Gerard grimaces in anticipation of seven minutes of that shit.

He half expects the guy to gravitate towards him without any effort on his part — most musicians in Jersey tend to — but when the guy props his guitar case against the wall and takes a seat at the opposite end of the bar, Gerard reluctantly gets up and heads over.

“Hey,” he says, dropping onto the stool next to the guy. “Can I buy you a drink?”

The guy gives Gerard a very obvious once-over before flicking his eyes back to the bartender, who is currently filling a glass on tap. “I’ve already got a drink.”

Gerard’s fake smile flickers. He doesn’t usually get pushback. “You could probably use another.”

“Maybe.” The guy looks at him steadily. Up close and unobstructed by shadows, he’s made up of sharp, hooded eyes, cheekbones, and dark hair curling around his ears. It’s a pretty face. It’s a face Gerard could sell. The guy continues, “Tell you what, let’s see if I stick around long enough to finish this one, yeah? Then you can buy me another.”

“Deal,” Gerard agrees, and holds out a hand. “You got a name?”

The guy’s drink slides down the bar and he catches it easily, taking a sip before he answers. “Only if you do.”

“Gerard,” says Gerard, hand still up.

The guy finally takes it, his palm cool and wet from condensation as he shakes. “Frank.”

“Suits you,” Gerard says, and Frank gives him an unimpressed look like he knows it’s just a line. Gerard doesn’t care. “Look, you were good up there. Best I’ve heard from anywhere in awhile. Are you signed?”

Frank makes a big show of looking around the bar, which, truth be told, is not exactly an ideal venue. “Does it look like I’m signed?”

“It’s a formality,” Gerard says. “I’m spearheading a new solo alternative project, and you’re perfect for it. I want to record your album.”

Normally, this is the part in the conversation where the other person chokes on their drink, or in some unfortunate cases, spits it everywhere. Something more than just staring blankly, certainly. But Frank’s face is completely void of emotion, like he hadn’t even heard what Gerard said.

“I’m serious,” Gerard says, just in case that wasn’t clear.

“No, I know you are.” Frank is still looking entirely unaffected. “It’s just — who the fuck are you, dude?”

“Gerard Way. Executive at Dead Pegasus Records.” Gerard doesn’t bother to keep the impatience out of his voice. Since when do Jersey musicians not know who he is? He roots around in his jacket pocket for the business card he knows is in there and holds it out until Frank takes it.

“Dead Pegasus,” Frank repeats as he eyes the card, real slow like he’s never heard of it before. Which is unlikely. “Huh. Interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Yeah, interesting. I mean, thanks for the offer.” Frank shrugs, pocketing the card. “But unfortunately I don’t do business with anyone who wears sunglasses indoors.”

In all honesty, Gerard had been so preoccupied that he’d forgotten about the shades perched on his nose, but now that Frank’s pointed them out he feels a hot flash of irritation. He shoves them up so they’re propped on his head and holding back some loose strands of scarlet hair, then lifts an eyebrow. “Better?”

“It’s nice to be able to see your eyes,” Frank says way too casually. Gerard has about half a second to consider the implications of that before Frank continues, “I’m not interested in any commercial shit, alright?” He downs the rest of his beer in one gulp and slides off the stool. “Maybe try the tambourine girl. I’m gonna go.” 

“Hold on!” Gerard calls after him, switching to a different tactic at the last moment. “You gonna be here next week?”

Gerard thinks he maybe catches the glint of a toothy smile before Frank ducks out of the door, but he gets no answer.

That’s alright. He’s willing to find out.

*

Work that week is contract negotiations, demos, demos, and more demos. Gerard drags his feet the whole week, pretending he doesn’t know what one thing is getting him through it.

Sure enough, Frank is back up on the same stage when Friday rolls around. He sits on the edge with his feet dangling again and doesn’t even bring the microphone with him, so Gerard is forced to abandon the bar and linger up towards the front instead just to hear him.

It’s worth it. Frank’s voice isn’t conventional, but it’s still  _ good,  _ and it pairs perfectly with the way he plays guitar — Gerard’s gut tells him, once again, that this is it. And Gerard’s gut is never wrong. Demos be damned. 

The best part, though, is towards the end of Frank’s seven-minute set when he looks up and catches sight of Gerard. His entire face morphs into surprise for just a second before he schools it back into nonchalance, but it’s enough. Frank remembers him. Gerard knew he made the right call to come back.

“I thought I told you I wasn’t interested,” Frank calls out to him once he’s off stage, heading away from Gerard and towards the bar. Gerard follows, shouldering through the weekend crowd, but only because he could use a drink himself.

“I know you’re not interested,” Gerard says as Frank gets his guitar situated. “But I still am.”

Frank catches the bartender’s attention and holds up one finger. “You’re not wearing sunglasses,” he tells Gerard without looking at him. “That for me?”

“No,” Gerard lies. “That’s just so I don’t look like a dick. What you played tonight was good. You wrote that stuff?”

“Yeah, I did.” Then, with a little more indignation, “You wanted to sign me last week without even knowing if I wrote my own stuff?”

“Even if you didn’t, we have lyricists who could work with you,” Gerard says flippantly, not noticing until it’s too late how appalled Frank looks at that notion. Fuck. He forgot how annoyingly sensitive the singer-songwriter type can be. “I figured they were originals, though,” he covers quickly. “You seem like that kind of guy.”

“Thanks,” Frank says dryly. 

“So I’m assuming you’ve reconsidered my offer?” Gerard tries to flag down the bartender but is unsuccessful. He pretends he doesn’t notice Frank’s mocking smirk.

“What, to be a bigshot star and make shitty t-shirts with my name on them?” Frank says all faux-coy. This fucker actually looks up at Gerard and  _ bats his eyelashes. _ “Geez, I don’t know. You know I’ve got a good thing going here.”

Gerard eyes the rapidly emptying bar in his peripheral. A broken glass glints on the floor. “I think I could treat you better than the open-mic circuit.”

“Now it sounds like you’re making a whole different sort of deal.” Frank smiles widely and leers. Gerard is starting to think he preferred the cold shoulder from last week. This is just some tactic to drive him off, though; Gerard is never one to be out-stubborned. 

“We can get to that stuff later,” Gerard says. “For now, I came to tell you that my offer still stands.”

“As does my refusal.” Frank pulls out cash and puts it next to his half-empty beer, grabbing his guitar. He says, “Take a cab home if you need one, yeah?” and then he’s gone. 

*

On Monday morning, Gerard drifts back and forth from his desk to the break room as he cycles through demo after demo, drinking his entire body weight in coffee just so he doesn’t fall asleep from boredom.

“I thought we told people we’re looking for solo acts,” he bemoans to Ray when Ray takes a break from mixing tracks on the other side of the office. “I’m getting band after band after band, and every time I think I hear something with potential, I can’t even use it because it’s like, five people and their  _ dog.” _

Ray offers him a sympathetic look from over his yogurt and leans back in his chair. Gerard hasn’t eaten all day. He should probably fix that sooner or later. Where the fuck is that Ryan kid? Has he made a lunch run yet? “You seriously haven’t found anyone?” asks Ray.

“No.” Irritation smolders in Gerard. “No one who will let me sign them, at least.”

Ray pauses with a spoonful of yogurt halfway in his mouth, his voice coming out muffled as he speaks around it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

For a second, Gerard contemplates just saying that it’s nothing and spinning his office chair back around to where his headphones are waiting, but the visceral need to complain wins out. “I saw this guy perform at an open-mic a couple weeks ago, right? Solo act. And he was fucking phenomenal. I offered him a contract on the spot, but he wanted nothing to do with me.”

A tiny smile plays at Ray’s lips, which, what the fuck? “A contract is all you offered him?”

“Opposed to what, a tour?” Gerard isn’t really in the mood for this. He can’t even complain anymore without it getting turned around on him. “Yes, that’s all I offered him.”

“Okay,” Rays says, holding up a hand to fend off Gerard’s sour expression. “So your interest was purely professional.”

“Of course it was, what the fuck?” Gerard says indignantly. “We need solo artists. He’s a good solo artist. I was doing my job.”

“Right, I get that,” says Ray. He still looks smug.

“But?”

Ray hesitates, scraping his plastic spoon against the bottom of his yogurt cup despite the fact that it’s obviously empty. “I’ve known you forever, Gee, right? I know what it means when your eyes light up like that.”

Okay, Gerard  _ really _ does not have time for this. “Jesus, it’s not fucking like that. I hardly know the guy.” He turns back to his computer. “He’s a good fit for this project. If my eyes lit up, or whatever the fuck, it’s just at the prospect of actually recording a decent album for once.”

“Okay,” Ray says, hardly sincere. Gerard slides his headphones on, ignoring him, and dives into the next set of demos. It’s only once six tracks have passed that he realizes he’s not listening to a damn thing. 

“Hey,” he calls out to Ray, pulling his headphones down around his neck. “Come with me this Friday to go see him. You’ll get it.”

Gerard watches as Ray pulls up his calendar on his own computer. After checking his commitments for the weekend, Ray decides, “Sure.”

They both go back to work. Gerard despairingly clicks on the next demo. It’s just as terrible as the one before it, which is no fucking surprise.

*

They end up dragging Mikey along too, despite the fact that he’s an intern and has no official pull in these sorts of decisions. Still, even though Dead Pegasus doesn’t realize Mikey has anything important to say yet, Gerard secretly values his opinion over almost anything else.

Gerard steers them towards a row of stools in the very back and pretends like he doesn’t hear Ray or Mikey when they ask why they have to sit so far away. Gerard isn’t going to risk being spotted; the last thing he wants his little brother and oldest friend to see is cold rejection in a place as low-level as an open-mic bar. He just crosses his fingers that Frank isn’t feeling like a total asshole tonight and actually uses the microphone.

They wait through a slam poetry duo, a singer, a juggler with bowling pins, and some college kid who mostly hums and plays keyboard. Each of them work their way through a few drinks in the meantime. It feels like the end of an eternity when Frank finally gets up there, promptly finding his spot on the edge of the stage and settling in, taking the mic with him, thank god. He tunes up his guitar quickly and seemingly by ear, then glides into his first song without so much as introducing himself.

“He’s not flashy,” Mikey murmurs, and Gerard sees Ray nod in agreement out of the corner of his eye.

Then the riff fades into melody, and Frank starts to sing.

The air between the three of them changes instantly. Gerard knows Ray and Mikey are finally seeing what he’s been talking about. Gerard can feel Frank’s voice like an ache in his chest, like something that burrowed in while he wasn’t paying attention and is now taking over parasitically.

“Jesus,” Ray says, and that pretty much sums it up.

“I guess he doesn’t need flash,” Mikey says a minute later. “Not with guitar and a voice like that, I mean.”

Something relaxes inside Gerard, vindicated now that he knows it’s not just him who understands it. Frank’s  _ got _ something, even now, unmixed and raw up on a tiny stage with a subpar sound system. Gerard knew there was no way he would be the only one to realize that.

“He writes these lyrics?” Mikey asks as Frank breaks into a chorus about drowning, and Gerard nods. Mikey looks impressed, which requires no small feat. “Haunting,” he decides.

“Gee,” Ray says, looking suddenly very serious. “You have to sign this guy.”

Gerard looks down into his empty glass. Wow, like he hadn’t thought of that. “Fuck, I know. I know I do.”

*

Gerard insists that they stay for a couple more acts after Frank comes off stage, just so the sudden movement of their shadows through the bar doesn’t tip Frank off to their presence. Not that he explains it to Mikey and Ray that way. They head out during an unfortunate barbershop quartet, Gerard trying to not make it seem like he’s sneaking around as much as he actually is. 

Once they’re outside, Mikey looks over at him. “You good to drive home?” 

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and he’s at least eighty percent sure. Two shots and three beers aren’t a big deal. Well, on second thought, maybe, “Or you guys could take a cab back and I’ll walk? I can take care of it, I should have cash, I—”

He checks his jean pockets, then pats down his leather jacket. Nothing. Fuck. “—left my wallet inside,” he finishes. 

Mikey looks like he’s about to laugh, because that motherfucker takes so much pride in the moments he’s more put-together than his older brother, but Ray says, “At least you noticed while we’re still here. You want us to come with you to look for it?”

Gerard almost says yes, but then it occurs to him that three people walking into a bar attracts a lot more attention than one. For obvious reasons, Gerard isn’t really in the business of being noticed tonight. “No, I got it. Just wait out here, I’ll be back in a second.”

Ray or Mikey might have said something after him, but Gerard doesn’t catch it because he’s already slipping back through the door. In and out quickly. Just like ripping off a band-aid. 

Thankfully, his brown leather wallet is still laying on the bar right in front of where they had been sitting. He lets out a deep breath and reaches for it, flipping it open and checking to make sure everything’s still there. Cash, good, credit and debit cards, good, license…?

From somewhere on his left, a familiar voice says, “Gerard Arthur Way, male, five foot nine. Brown hair. What? You’re not a natural redhead?”

First of all, there’s no way in hell Frank actually thought that, but that’s not the most pressing issue. He snaps his gaze over to where Frank is leaned up against the bar with his hip cocked out, inspecting Gerard’s driver’s license under the low light. God, Gerard hadn’t even  _ seen _ him there. “You went through my fucking  _ wallet?” _

Frank shrugs and says, “You left it there,” like that somehow makes it okay. Gerard is about to give Frank a scathing piece of his mind when Frank continues, “Have you been avoiding me, Gerard Arthur Way?”

Gerard blinks, feeling wrong-footed by the curveball. And the use of his full name. “What?”

“Well, I mean, maybe I’m being presumptuous. But you did watch my whole set, and you didn’t even come say hello and try to sell me things I don’t want once it was over. No time to stay and chat?”

Frank is so far up his own ass, and the worst part is, he  _ knows _ it. Gerard doesn’t like any conversation he isn’t steering. “You—” he tries, but Frank cuts him off.

“Yeah, I noticed you.” Frank eyes Gerard’s fiery hair without any discretion. “You’re kind of hard to miss, you know? But I thought we had something special. Am I not worth it anymore?”

Gerard finally pulls it together enough to get out, “Oh, fuck you. You know exactly what I think you’re worth.”

“Which is?”

“A record deal,” Gerard says coldly. “And if you’d just fucking—”

He trails off as he feels someone tap his elbow. It’s Ray. He looks worried, which Gerard supposes is reasonable considering he’d just walked up to Gerard cursing at the guy he’s supposed to be trying to sign. “Um, sorry, it’s just been a few minutes. Mikey and I were starting to wonder if you were okay.”

It takes a second for Gerard’s brain to reboot and remember why he’d come in here in the first place. “Yeah, I’m — I’m okay. I found my wallet, we can go.” Gerard remembers about his license at the last moment and turns back to Frank, about to start bitching again, only to see that it’s right under his nose on the bar. When had Frank slid it back over?

“You sure you’re okay?” Ray asks. Out of the corner of Gerard’s eye, he can see that Frank has turned away, not even paying attention anymore.

“Let’s just go,” Gerard says, not answering the question. He’s thankful that Ray is a nice guy and doesn’t press it.

Normally, drinking helps Gerard fall asleep. But tonight, he stares at the ceiling for a long time before he drifts off.

*

Mikey shows up at Gerard’s office door, but he isn’t holding any coffee. Not ideal. “Gabe wants to see you.”

Gerard stiffens. Gabe’s a decent guy, if occasionally overbearing, but as a rule of thumb getting called in by the boss means there’s either really good news or really bad news. Gerard hasn’t done anything worthy of good news recently, he’s pretty sure.

Mikey has always been able to read him. “You’re not getting fired.”

Fuck, that hadn’t even  _ occurred _ to Gerard yet. Getting taken off of his project was the more predominant concern. “Is it good news?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

Mikey says nothing for a long moment. Gerard doesn’t want to meet his eyes and see his facial expression, or lack thereof. “You’re not getting fired,” he repeats. “But don’t keep him waiting. I told him to go easy on you.”

It doesn’t make sense. Gerard has been here for five years, and somehow his intern brother has already done a better job of getting on Gabe’s good side.

“Coffee when I get back?” Gerard asks Mikey as he walks past him on his way to Gabe’s office, already knowing the answer to that too. Mikey doesn’t dignify him with a response.

Gabe is rifling through a floor-to-ceiling file cabinet when Gerard appears in his open doorway and knocks on the doorframe. Head snapping up, Gabe slams the cabinet shut, but luckily no papers fly out. “Gerard!” He sounds entirely surprised to see Gerard, as if he hadn’t been the one to call him in. Gesturing for him to take a seat, Gabe reclaims his own desk chair, the fancy leather kind with armrests. “Hey. Good to see you. How’s that contract with Meredith Asters coming?”

For an idiotic second, Gerard almost asks  _ who? _ before he remembers the indie rock girl he’d been working with last week. He’s had some other stuff on his mind since then. Racking his brain for the details of the agreement they’d drawn up, he says, “She signed on for two albums, two singles off each. We decided not to negotiate videos yet.”

Gabe picks up a pen and bites the end of it. He’s kind of a restless guy. “Good, I like that. I listened to one of her demos. I hear the potential too. You’ve got a good ear for this sort of thing.” 

Well, Gerard would fucking hope so, considering it’s his full-time job. Not that he’s going to argue. Gabe says, “Start CCing me on your emails with her, okay? I’d like to keep a closer eye on things. And drop those contract files on my desk as soon as you can.”

“I’ll do it before I leave today,” Gerard decides. That seems to please Gabe.

He steeples his fingers, which is so goddamn stereotypical it’s a struggle for Gerard to not roll his eyes. Gabe says, “Anyone else you’d like to tell me about?”

An odd feeling twists in Gerard’s stomach. “I’m still in the process of sorting through demos.”

“Still?” Putting the abused pen down, Gabe reaches for the mini calendar on his desk and starts to flip through. He locates the current week and runs his index finger over it. “Still, huh. It’s been, what, three weeks?”

“Um.” The words stick to the inside of Gerard’s throat. He swallows. “Two and a half, by my count.”

“Two and a half, three, whatever. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, I was hoping for quicker results.” Gabe looks at him with stern eyes, and Gerard is reminded of how intimidating he’d been when Gerard had first started working here. “I dedicate one of my most talented executives to a single project, I think it’s fair to expect some real work to get done. Don’t you?”

“Well—” Gerard doesn’t know how he’s going to finish that sentence. It’s not his fault that every solo artist in the whole goddamn world sings out of their ass and can’t write a lyric to save their life. It’s not like he’s slacking off, he’s  _ trying. _ Most goldpanners go months without finding something that sparkles. “I’m working on a new lead right now, and after that it’ll be no time before I find our third.”

“A new lead?” Gabe perks up momentarily, but then it disappears. “You know what, don’t tell me about it. I trust your judgement. Just have them both on my desk by the end of the month. You can handle that, right?”

The end of the month. That’s a week and a half away. Gerard swallows hard. “Right.”

*

“Jesus Christ,” Frank says as soon as he steps off stage. “Should I get a restraining order? You’re an even bigger fan than my mom.”

Gerard doesn’t have the time for inane banter anymore. He’s got two more solo acts to sign in barely more than a week. Frank must see his change in expression, because he opens his stupid fucking mouth again, but Gerard interrupts with, “Have a drink with me?”

Frank stares at him. Gerard’s been forward before, but never  _ that _ forward. “Alright,” Frank says, surprising them both. He clears his throat and clarifies, “You’re buying, though.”

As if it makes any difference to Gerard.

Frank eyes him sideways as he orders a beer. “I looked you up, you know. Figured I should even the playing field since you’ve been stalking me.”

Considering the bar is a public space, Gerard would hardly call it stalking, but he isn’t going to waste his breath on that now. “And?”

“And you signed Teenage Nightmares, Courtyard Rejects, and Nuclear Stabilizer. That’s kind of a big deal.” Gerard is about to cut in, thinking he’s finally getting somewhere, when Frank finishes, “Too bad they’re all sellouts now.”

Gerard grips the whiskey shot handed to him with a little more force than necessary. “At least they can do better than open-mics.”

Frank shakes his head at him and scoffs. “Stadiums suck and you know it.”

Gerard frowns. Well, yeah, obviously stadiums suck. The sound is usually shit and a bunch of fancy lights could never make up for the fact that you can’t  _ see _ the people on stage — but stadiums make  _ money. _ And money makes records. That’s sort of where Gerard’s paycheck comes from.

“Stadiums serve their purpose.”

Frank ignores him and carries on his own conversation. “But all those bands, they’re not on Dead Pegasus anymore, are they? They found greener pastures. No wonder you want to sign me so bad.”

Gerard grits his teeth. He’s worked with some conceited people, but Frank is  _ insufferable. _ “I want to sign you because you’re wasting your fucking talent.”

“Really? And that’s all?” Frank props his chin in his hand and leans a little closer. “That doesn’t seem like enough, I won’t lie.”

Gerard has to hold himself rigid so he doesn’t do something incriminating like shift uncomfortably. “What else do you want?”

“I want you to sell me,” Frank says. “You’ve shown up here for an entire month, even with your crazy-haired boyfriend or whoever the fuck last week, so you sure as shit think I’m special. Tell me why.”

“Ray?” Gerard’s voice pitches up, and he has to clear his throat before he continues. “Ray is not my boyfriend.”

Frank waves a dismissive hand. “Whatever, I can’t judge on that kind of thing. Just answer the question.”

“The answer is that you’re a good musician.”

Frank takes a sip of his beer, which Gerard really regrets agreeing to pay for now. “No, I don’t think so.”

“What the hell else do you think it takes to make a record that’ll sell?” Gerard spits. “You’re a decent singer, you play like May, and you’re marketable. The only problem is that you’re a short-sighted dumbass who keeps ignoring when opportunity knocks.”

Frank, naturally, clings to the wrong part of Gerard’s outburst. “Marketable?”

“Yes, your face is marketable,” says Gerard, beyond exasperated. ”Pretty, okay? You’re pretty. Pretty sells. Pretty fills stadiums. Pretty gets  _ signed.”  _

Frank puts his beer down so there’s nothing blocking his view of Gerard. “You think I’m pretty?”

Against his nature and ego, Gerard wants to sink down through the floor and never come back to this horrible place. “Motherfucker, you  _ know _ you’re pretty.” 

“Just wanted to hear you say it,” says Frank. “But you’re right, I do know. That’s why I don’t need your label.”

Gerard has never been in a bar fight before. That may be about to change. “You’re really content to only let these people hear what you have to say? The same damn fifty people every week?”

“Yes,” Frank says. “Because unlike you, I’m in this for the right reasons.”

“Which would be?” 

“I don’t know, just for the  _ hell _ of it. Just because it’s mine and no one else’s. Because it keeps me alive. Those are all good enough reasons for me. Besides,” Frank gestures expansively, “they keep coming back for more.”

Gerard’s out for blood now. “They’re regulars. They’re not here for you.” 

“That may be.” Frank’s eyes flick away, then back. “But what about you, then?”

“I’m a regular.”

“Didn’t used to be.”

“Now I’m here for business.”

And then, like practically every other person in Gerard’s life, Frank asks, “And that’s all?” Except when Frank says it, leaned in much closer than Gerard had noticed a moment ago and looking up through his eyelashes, it makes Gerard shiver. That’s new. 

Frank’s lips are parted just barely, definitely on purpose. He knows what he’s doing to Gerard — fuck, what he’s been doing for  _ weeks. _ But Gerard can’t kiss him. He  _ can’t. _ If he does this now, one impulsive decision during a lapse of reason, it’s all over. He can wave goodbye to any semblance of professionalism left and his position as solo project head. 

Frank kisses him instead.

“You  _ fucker,” _ Gerard hisses through his teeth, trying to shove Frank back with a hand on his chest. True to character, Frank doesn’t relent, bunching up the collar of Gerard’s jacket and reeling him back in.

Gerard  _ really _ wishes it wasn’t so good, but fuck, it  _ is. _

If Frank’s not going to let him go, then, Gerard isn’t going to surrender control completely. He gives as good as he gets, grabbing at Frank’s hips until he’s slammed up against the bar. He spares a thankful thought for his past self’s decision to sit in the dark, isolated corner again. 

“You want this,” Frank whispers against his mouth, breath hot, almost like he doesn’t believe it.

“Coy isn’t a good look on you,” Gerard mutters back, nipping at Frank’s bottom lip. God, he’s been so wound up for  _ weeks, _ and it’s starting to become pretty clear as to why.

“And cocky isn’t good on you,” Frank retorts, which is a goddamn lie and they both know it. “C’mon, fucker, I want to—”

“What?” Gerard arches into Frank’s touch as his hands slip underneath the hem of his shirt. God. He’s glad he changed out of his work clothes before coming here. “Fucking _ what?” _

“Fucking—” Frank’s mouth and teeth are everywhere, scraping over Gerard’s jaw and down his throat like he doesn’t give a damn who sees. Then he shifts against Gerard’s hip, and he’s already half hard, what the fuck. That’s about the time Gerard notices that he is too. Oh. “Fucking come  _ on.” _

“I’m not hooking up with you in the bathroom.” Gerard figures he’s stooped pretty low with this thing already, but he has to establish some kind of standard  _ somewhere. _ Frank pulls back, eyebrows scrunched together ridiculously like he’s offended Gerard would even suggest that. His pupils are so blown, his mouth pornographically red and wet, and he’s still hard against Gerard’s thigh.

Not for the first time in Frank’s presence, Gerard can’t look away.

He makes possibly the worst decision of his adult life. “Let me take you home.”

Frank beams a million-watt smile at him, so bright it’s disorienting in the dark bar, and says, “No, motherfucker, no way.  _ I’m _ taking  _ you _ home.”

With the way Frank is looking at him, Gerard can’t even find the willpower to argue.

*

“Oh my god,” Frank groans the next morning as he rolls over and sees Gerard staring back at him, his morning breath gag-worthy and Herculean in strength. “You’re still here? You didn’t sneak out at the crack of dawn? What kind of hookup  _ are _ you?”

Gerard pulls the sheets up to his chin and rolls his eyes. It’s cold in Frank’s apartment, so he isn’t going anywhere yet. “Brush your teeth, asshole.”

Perhaps just to prove how much of an asshole he really can be, Frank rolls on top of Gerard and kisses him hard enough to make Gerard taste his disgusting breath. “Still not a fan?” he asks, smirking.

“Yes,” Gerard says, shoving Frank off. He rolls onto his side and takes the covers with him. 

When he wakes up for the second time, Frank is standing over him holding two mugs of coffee. “They’re both for me,” Frank says in response to Gerard’s raised eyebrow, but Gerard doesn’t miss the way Frank’s eyes sweep over him as he sits up and the sheets pool around his waist.

He holds out a hand, and Frank gives him one of the mugs. Sucker. 

They sit in bed together sipping at their coffee while it’s still too hot to drink properly, not speaking. Gerard figures it’s better this way, because it’s not like they’re in the position to talk business with Frank just in his boxers and Gerard naked. Now that Gerard thinks about it, he should probably put some clothes on soon.

Well, in a minute. The bed’s warm. 

Despite the silence, though, every time Gerard sneaks a glance over at Frank, he’s already looking back. But he drops his gaze each time, last night’s confidence apparently forgotten somewhere.

“I talked to the tambourine girl, you know, from a couple weeks ago? You saw her.” Frank sets his mug down on the nightstand. The lack of conversation has obviously gotten to him, but his choice in topic only makes Gerard realize that they have so little common ground. “She’s cool. A little twitchy, but cool. Most artists are, I think.”

“Mhm,” Gerard offers. 

“Hey,” Frank says, recognizing that Gerard is still staring straight ahead, not paying attention at all. “Hey,” he says again, softer, and then somehow they’re kissing again.

Gerard kisses back without even thinking about it, which is something he’ll need to unpack later. But right now, his entire world is narrowed down to Frank: his hot, ever-insistent mouth, his fingers covering Gerard’s on the mug and stealing it away to put on the nightstand, the muscles of his shoulders moving under Gerard’s hands once they’re free.

“You are such a bad idea,” Gerard murmurs just barely against Frank’s mouth, but when Frank hums, “Hm?” he doesn’t repeat it.

If they’re going for round two, at least Gerard is already naked.

*

Around noon, Gerard starts to wonder why Frank hasn’t kicked him out yet. They’re both still lazing around in bed, although not paying attention to each other, Gerard grimacing at email after email on his phone and Frank reading some paperback. A box of cereal lies at the foot of the bed and they’ve gone through a few more mugs of coffee, but every trip to the kitchen led them right back here, somehow.

Gerard finishes reading a memo from Patrick at the office that he’d somehow missed on Friday and turns to Frank, clearing his throat to get his attention. Frank still doesn’t look up from his book.

“Don’t you have, like, things to do today?”

“No, it’s Saturday,” Frank says after flipping the page. “Do you?”

Gerard says, “Probably,” which is the short answer because he almost always has something he should be doing. The longer answer is that he really should answer some of those damn emails, listen to as many demos as he can take before his ears start to bleed, and call Mikey back before he shows up at Gerard’s apartment to make sure he’s not dead.

All that considered, Gerard really should go. But — he’s only in his boxers, and his clothes are on the other side of the bed where he’d kicked them off the night before. The energy to move evades him. “What’re you reading?”

Frank folds the book so he can see at the cover, which people always do for some stupid reason, even though logically the person reading the book should remember what it is. Gerard doesn’t know why he’s so irrationally annoyed by it. “A poetry collection. It’s by a bunch of different authors.”

Naturally.

Gerard twists his feet in the covers for a few minutes, trying to come up with something else to say. This is much easier with alcohol in both of their systems. 

What he comes up with is, “I think I’m gonna go.” He feels like he should tack on something apologetic like,  _ I’ve got shit to do, sorry _ or  _ I’ll see you next week, _ but he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t know where all of this sudden remorse came from, but it needs to return to the bottom of the rubble pile in Gerard’s brain where it belongs.

All Frank says is, “Okay.”

Gerard slides out of bed and starts reassembling last night’s outfit on his body as best he can, very purposely not looking at Frank, who is still lounged on the bed and reading his fucking poetry without a care in the world. This achy feeling in Gerard’s chest is not  _ disappointment. _ This is exactly what he expected when he got in the cab last night with Frank.

Fuck. Gerard still has to go pick up his car at the bar.

For a wild second, he entertains the idea of asking Frank for a ride, but when he looks down at him it makes Gerard’s whole mouth taste sour. He’ll call Mikey, or he’ll walk if he has to.

Gerard is kneeling on the floor to get his boots laced up, teeth gritted in silent resentment, when Frank’s hand cards gently through his hair. Gerard looks up, fully prepared to spit something about how this was a one-time thing and Frank doesn’t have any  _ right _ to do that, but the words die on his tongue as he catches sight of Frank’s expression. He’s still reading while his hand moves through Gerard’s hair absently, like he hasn’t even noticed it. He looks more peaceful than Gerard has ever seen him.

When Frank’s hand comes down towards his jaw, Gerard turns his head and kisses the palm of it. Then he swallows the lump in his throat and stands up to leave.

He knows his jacket is somewhere in the living room. Things had turned kind of hazy last night after they’d gotten through the front door, so not all of his clothes had quite made it to the bedroom. 

Walking past the kitchenette, he immediately spots it draped over the TV. Maybe his aim isn’t great. Or Frank’s. Hell if he can remember who’s responsible.

Shrugging it on, he turns around. The glint of blank jewel cases stacked next to some books catches his eye. Maybe he’s curious by nature or maybe the music business has corrupted his concept of privacy past any point of recognition, but he has to step closer. People don’t keep blank jewel cases on a shelf unless there’s something in them.

Sure enough, there is. All four cases have plain silver CDs in them, but the first one has a label scrawled in permanent marker across the disc:  _ FOR HAMBONE: DEMOS. _

Gerard glances quickly over his shoulder, but he’s still alone in the room. Frank must be really absorbed in that poetry to wonder why he hasn’t heard his door open and close yet. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

Sometimes Gerard has to take things into his own hands for the greater good. Whoever this Hambone person is, they can wait.

Gerard plucks the demo CD from the shelf and shoves it under his jacket, taking quiet steps towards the front door. Frank will thank him for this later.

The door is barely a whisper as it shuts behind him.

*

“Holy shit,” Gerard says, loud enough that Ray hears it through his headphones from the other side of the room and turns to see what’s going on. He slides the headphones off of one ear and raises his eyebrows. Reverently, Gerard finishes, “I  _ found _ someone.”

“Other than your open-mic guy?” Pointing to his computer, Ray makes a swirly sort of gesture, probably supposed to indicate Frank’s demo CD that he’s currently listening to and converting to audio files at the same time. “Because whatever his name is, he’s even better than I remembered.”

“Frank,” Gerard says, then wishes he hadn’t. Not everything is fucking about Frank. “But yes, besides him. There’s this girl in New York, goes by Natasha Killswitch, and apparently all the NYC labels are either deaf or wouldn’t know talent if it hit them in the face, because she’s  _ got _ it. It’s like — a little bit of electronic, a lot of good bassline, a tiny bit of rapping. I think there’s metal influences in there somewhere too. Here, just—”

Gerard attempts to wheel over in his chair to where Ray is, dragging his headphones as far as the cord will let him. They run out of line about a third of the way across the room, and Gerard makes an impatient noise. He’s been sorting fruitlessly through demos for weeks. Now that he’s finally found something worthwhile, he needs someone else to  _ hear _ it.

Because he is a saint, Ray gets up and walks over to where Gerard is stuck and slips the headphones on. His starts nodding along to the beat almost immediately, and after a minute of listening he flashes Gerard a thumbs up. Relief swells in Gerard. After the month he’s had, it’s comforting to know he isn’t just going crazy.

“She’s the one,” Ray confirms as he hands the headphones back over. “Well, one of the ones.”

He’s right. Two down, one to go.

*

By Thursday, Gerard has contract drawn up and signed with his new solo act, exactly a week before his drop dead date. He takes his first deep breath in what feels like a lifetime.

He leaves the documents on Gabe’s desk, then scans them in and emails them to him as an extra safeguard. At the last second, on a whim, he also attaches Frank’s newly converted demo files and writes,  _ The other thing I’m working on. _

Gabe shoots him back an email within the hour that says,  _ Good job with the girl. As for the guy, you better sign him before someone else does. _

Gerard has to muffle a snort against the back of his hand. He’d like to see them try.

*

Because Murphy’s Law is a bitch, Gerard’s success streak comes to a screeching halt not with a bang, but with a twenty-two year old newly-signed solo artist sobbing at him over the phone just as he’s about to leave on Friday.

“Look,” he says for the millionth time, trying his best to sound sympathetic but definitely falling short. “You only signed on for an EP and an album. For most musicians, that’s barely two years. If this really isn’t the life you want, you’re not stuck with us forever.” Gerard thinks it’s probably best to leave out the renewal clauses for right now.

But the thing about being twenty-two, Gerard recalls distinctly, is that a couple of years — barely anything when compared to the grand scheme of things — feels like an eon. He’d been an intern at Dead Pegasus when he was twenty-two. He knows how it goes.

Through his open door, Gerard sees the only other remaining office light down the hall shut off as the other poor soul staying late on Friday night finally makes their leave. Gerard resists the urge to groan, kicking the desk instead.

“It’s just—” Natasha sobs into the phone, “—my parents always said they thought life had something different in store for me, and I don’t know, maybe they were  _ right. _ What if I can’t do this professionally? Or what if—”

“Have you played gigs before?” Gerard interrupts before she can truly start to spiral.

A sniffle. “Yes?”

“And have people paid to get into those gigs? And you got a portion of the profit?”

“Um.” Natasha clearly doesn’t know where this is going. “Yes?”

“Congratulations, you’re already a professional.” Okay, Gerard knows he’s being somewhat coarse, but nowhere in his paycheck does he get compensated for being a  _ therapist. _ “We’re just asking you to step it up a little. We have people here to help you out with everything, okay? Writing, tracking, marketing, all that. I went through thousands of demos before I found yours. I wouldn’t have signed you if I didn’t think you were up for it. You get that?”

For a second, the other end is silent, and Gerard is about to pat himself on the back for finally getting through to her. Then the line crackles and Natasha’s tear-stained voice comes back with, “I just don’t know if…”

Gerard wonders how much force it would take to brain himself on the desk hard enough to end it all.

They go in circles for another hour until Gerard manages to talk her down completely, and then he drags his tired, overworked body into his car and takes a deep breath as he looks up through the moonroof. There aren’t any stars out.

His car’s display tells him it’s past ten. That wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t a brain-fried zombie of a man. He drives home, blinking a million times and blasting the radio just to stay awake, and falls asleep as soon as he collapses on his bed.

*

When Gerard checks his phone the next morning, there’s a missed call from an unsaved number with a local area code.

It hits him all at once. Gerard’s stomach drops like a stone. 

If Frank had kept his business card, he’d have Gerard’s number. Last night was Friday. The night that Gerard always goes to see him perform. And the week he accidentally doesn’t show up just so happens to be right after they hooked up.

There’s no way Frank is going to see his innocence in this.

He paces around his bedroom and then his kitchen when he can’t stand the sight of those walls anymore, biting his fingernails down to the quick. The call could have been some wrong number, or maybe a telemarketer.

But Gerard’s gut tells him otherwise. And Gerard’s gut is never wrong. 

He downs an entire cup of coffee, and then he calls the number back.

It connects on the third ring. Sure enough, a more nasally version of Frank’s voice accuses, “Oh, so you’re alive.”

Irritation bubbles up in Gerard instantly, but he tries to push it down for both of their sakes. “Frank—”

“I just called last night to make sure you weren’t six feet under or whatever, okay? I was kind of drunk, too. Don’t read into it.”

“I wasn’t reading into anything,” Gerard all but hisses. “But you’re allowed to admit you missed me, asshole.”

“You want me to lie to you?” Frank asks staunchly. Gerard really, truly despises him. 

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. “It wasn’t because of what happened last week. I mean it. I just had to work late and got distracted.”

“Uh huh,” Frank mutters like a pain in the ass. “That’s cool. You’ve only been obsessively stalking me for more than a month. I can see how that would just slip your mind.”

“It  _ did,” _ Gerard stresses. God, why does he even  _ care _ what Frank believes? No one else,  _ no one, _ gets under his skin like this. “But, look, okay, you want some good news? Everyone at my office thinks you’re a musical genius. Sorry I couldn’t make your fucking  _ open-mic _ show, but is that good enough for you?”

When Frank’s voice comes back, it’s low and tense. “How does everyone at your office know what my music sounds like?”

“Just my boss and a friend, actually,” Gerard says as he glares daggers at his fridge. Maybe he has a big mouth and didn’t exactly mean to bring this up yet, but he sure as hell isn’t going to apologize for it now.

“I don’t  _ care  _ who it was,” Frank says. “The question was  _ how, _ Gerard.”

“You make such a big deal about not being a recorded artist and only doing your own thing,” Gerard says flatly, “and yet you leave demo discs in plain sight.”

“Those weren’t for  _ you,” _ Frank growls, white-hot. 

Gerard grabs onto the tangent. “Yeah, who’s this Hambone person? Your producer? Your boyfriend?”

“A  _ friend,” _ Frank spits. “A friend who gets to hear my demos because he’s not a fucking thief!”

“You have two-thirds of an album!” Gerard shouts back. “You’re over there on your fucking high horse, because you’re so goddamn good and you know it, but it doesn’t mean  _ shit _ because you’re too much of a coward to even release any of it! Regulars at a bar you go to every week don’t  _ care _ about your music.  _ I _ care about your music! And I fucking care about—” He cuts himself off.

Frank’s voice is quiet, dangerous. “You care about what, Gerard?”

“I care about my fucking record company,” Gerard finishes harshly. “I have until Thursday to bring in an act for them, and I keep wasting all my fucking time on you. I don’t know why I bother.”

“Then don’t,” Frank says, cold as ice. “It wasn’t your place to spread my music and you know it. Don’t call me again, and if you show up to any more open-mic nights, I’ll punch your fucking lights out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gerard says, but the line is already dead.

*

Gerard stays up all night listening to demos and finds nothing. There’s not an ounce of talent left in the whole world.

On one of his many delirious, sleep-deprived stumbles into the kitchen for coffee, he catches himself humming a tune that he can’t place.

It comes to him just as the coffee machine starts to pour.  _ The past don't mean shit to me, shit to me, shit to me, shit to me...  _

He throws an ill-advised punch at the fridge and only succeeds in making his hand throb. 

He can’t even get the rest of the song out of his head.  _ Now that’s a lie. _

*

“Should I just pick a terrible artist at the last minute and hope Gabe doesn’t notice?” Gerard picks his head up from his kitchen table just enough to see Mikey’s expression. Monday morning always suck, but they’re even worse when your little brother uses his spare key to barge in and shake you awake because you were apparently supposed to be at work an hour ago and seriously need to stop pulling all-nighters, goddamnit.

“No,” Mikey says matter-of-factly, and gets up to pour them both coffee in to-go thermoses. “Gabe is so full of shit that he’s a master at seeing through everyone else’s. You’re going to find what you need, but only if you start sleeping again and stop stressing yourself to death. Seriously, it’s just one project.”

Gerard has no idea how to mention that there’s a lot more going on with him right now without opening up a terrible door, so he doesn’t. “It’s a big project.”

“Only because you’re treating it that way,” Mikey says, which doesn’t even make sense. But Gerard can’t find enough energy in himself just to function basically, much less the extra kick required to argue. He simply nods and takes the coffee Mikey hands him, murmuring his gratitude. 

Mikey doesn’t push him for conversation on the drive to the office. Once they arrive, he locks Gerard’s door for him and tells everyone that he’s very busy crunching through demos while he takes a much needed powernap.

Gerard is starting to think that he doesn’t deserve the people in his life.

*

That night, after a day full of searching for the impossible and finding nothing to show for it, Gerard makes himself a hearty dinner of ramen and beer to eat on the couch. It’s like college all over again, except now his rent is higher and somehow his future looks even grimmer. 

He’s lonely.

He contemplates calling Mikey, but he knows that if he does he’ll be subjected to all the questions his mom wants Mikey to pull answers out of Gerard for. Mikey and his mom are a lot closer than she and Gerard ever were, and usually Gerard feels okay with that distance, but knowing that they’re probably gossiping about him and his inability to wake up on time is more than a little shameful.

After accidentally locking Ray out of their shared office all morning, Gerard is pretty sure he wouldn’t be up to chat either.

There’s another number sitting at the top of his recents.

He shuts his phone off, slides it to the other end of the couch, and turns on the TV instead.

Sitcom episode after sitcom episode slide across his field of vision, but none of it gets as far as his brain. He turns antsy quickly, which usually happens when he’s sitting around instead of taking care of work needs to be done; he retrieves his laptop and folds back into the couch, muting the TV and taking advantage of the rare liberty of getting to hear music out loud rather than in his headphones.

Too bad it’s fucking awful music.

Even answering emails doesn’t get rid of the restlessness. He’s twitchy, heels bouncing in a rhythm against the floor and fingers tapping against any surface they can find. Shaking himself, he tries to snap out of it, but it’s futile.

The presence of his phone is like a magnetic pull. He can feel it from the other side of the couch.

Before he can overthink it, or reevaluate how he definitely hasn’t had enough beer to justify this, he unlocks his phone and opens a text message on Frank’s contact. 

The truth is, he doesn’t have anything left to lose.

Fingers shaking on the keypad, he types,  _ I’m sorry. I know I fucked up. _ And then, even though he knows he’s pushing it,  _ You said not to call. This doesn’t count. _

As soon as he hits send, he regrets it. He deletes the text conversation altogether, even though he knows it’s too late to take it back. At least he won’t have to look at it again.

There isn’t an answer when he wakes up. Gerard tells himself that’s what he expected.

*

Gerard is so preoccupied on Wednesday listening to demos and trying to figure out what the hell he’s going to tell Gabe about only having two-thirds of a solo project that he doesn’t hear his phone buzzing on the other side of the room. He doesn’t even notice he’s missed any calls until he’s dragging his sorry ass out of the office late that night, locking up behind himself and using his phone as a flashlight. 

It’s an unsaved number, but Gerard still knows it. There’s a voicemail. 

With his back pressed up against the brick exterior of the building and the chilly air not the only thing making it hard to breathe, he opens his voicemail and enters the password. Frank’s message blinks at him brightly at the very top, like a temptress leading him to his own doom.

He’s done lying to himself. He’s always been a sucker for Frank.

_ “You’re damn right you fucked up,” _ comes Frank’s voice. Even though he’d been the one to hit play, it startles the breath out of Gerard. There’s a long pause that makes Gerard’s heart sink even further underground, so long that Gerard starts to think that Frank just forgot to hang up. But then he says,  _ “I’ve been thinking about what you said. Here’s the thing. I haven’t recorded everything yet. You didn’t even hear the good stuff.” _

So softly that Gerard thinks he’s imagining it at first, guitar notes float out of the tinny speaker and into the night air. Gerard closes his eyes and tries to soak it in. Already, he knows that he’ll never be able to delete this voicemail.

_ “I hope you remember where I live,” _ Frank continues as the guitar slowly fades out,  _ “because if you want to hear the rest, you’re going to have to come see it.” _

Gerard is in his car the next instant. He breaks every speed limit by an excessive amount on his way over, but there aren’t any cops on the road. At a stoplight, he pulls back the cover to his moonroof, and the sky twinkles back at him.

*

“I haven’t forgiven you,” Frank says in place of a greeting as he answers the door. “And you’re still the biggest asshole I know. I made coffee.”

It’s a lot of information at once, so Gerard clings to the last bit, following Frank into his kitchenette. They lean against the counter and sip in tense silence while Gerard racks his brain for something, anything, that could turn this around.

How much he cares about regaining Frank’s trust is actually alarming. He doesn’t know what the fuck has happened to him.

“I’m sorry,” seems like a safe place to start.

Frank keeps staring straight ahead. “You said that already.”

“Not in person. It’s different.”

At least Frank doesn’t argue with that. “I’m going to go get my guitar, alright? We don’t have all night, I’m scheduled to work in the morning and for some reason you thought it’d be ideal to come over at ten o’clock.”

“I didn’t want to wait,” Gerard says honestly as Frank wanders off to his bedroom. Gerard has to ball his hands into fists until his fingernails bite the skin so he doesn’t think about what happened in there. “Where do you work?” he asks, voice raised to be heard.

“The diner down the street, Hooligans,” Frank informs him as he walks back into the room with his guitar slung around his neck. He’s not carrying an amp, though. He shrugs. “For now, at least.”

“You switch jobs a lot?”

“Sometimes,” Frank says, cutting him a glare that buries any more questions he had. They really don’t know that much about each other. Gerard doesn’t really want to think about that.

Frank settles down on the couch so Gerard takes the old chair crammed kitty-corner against it. He starts tuning up, still no amp in sight. Gerard has to ask, “You’re playing unplugged?”

Frank’s glare could kill. “What, you want to write for me?”

Gerard refuses to take the bait. He didn’t come all the way over here just to leave things worse off. “That’s not what I was saying.”

“Good.” Frank looks back down at his guitar, still messing with the tuning. “Go put your phone in the kitchen.”

Gerard blinks at him. “What?”

“Go put your phone in the kitchen,” Frank repeats stiffly. “So you don’t record anything.”

Gerard leans back, affronted. “I wasn’t going to, what the fuck? I hadn’t even thought about it.”

“You’ll have to excuse my skepticism,” mutters Frank. “Seriously. Put it away, or this isn’t happening.”

“Okay. Jesus.” Gerard gets up and drops his phone off in the kitchen, working hard to keep all his emotions welling up at bay. God, he fucked this all up  _ so bad. _

Frank’s already playing by the time he gets back, metallic, unplugged notes vibrating through the room. He starts off with something simple but it builds. Since he’s singing under his breath, Gerard can’t make out the lyrics, but he can still feel them.

This is what he’s been lonely for.

Gerard reclaims the chair and crosses his legs underneath himself, trying not to stare at Frank but not knowing where the hell else to look. It feels like their own little bubble, at least to Gerard, where he doesn’t have a deadline tomorrow or this messy not-relationship he doesn’t know how to fix. All he has right now is Frank’s low, soft voice blending perfectly with the strumming of the guitar, and that’s all he needs. He doesn’t know why it took him so long to figure that out.

Gerard wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t.

He can’t keep track of how long Frank plays, but once his fingers fall off the frets and he looks up and takes a breath, he meets Gerard’s gaze with tangible weight. “I’m trying,” Gerard says, barely a whisper, “but I still don’t get it. I can’t understand it. You have something the world is missing. Don’t you feel any obligation to put it out there?”

Frank lets out a deep breath. “I do, just. Not the way you’re thinking I should.”

Tampering down his initial defensive instincts, Gerard asks, “What do you want to do?”

“I’m not sure,” Frank says. “That why — those demos for my friend Hambone? He’s a musician too. He was going to give them a listen, give me some feedback on where he thinks I should be taking things. It’s just — the music I want to make, the music I’m  _ making, _ its message is more important than the messenger. It’d tear me up if I had to watch it be diluted by subliminal marketing or radio edits or club remixes, or to see my face get printed and pressed onto everything. That’s just not what it’s about.”

“You want it to be pure,” Gerard says. He bites his tongue before he can point out how that’s not a sustainable business model, or even a business model at all.

“I do.” Frank nods. “You get it?”

Gerard isn’t going to lie, not after everything. “Not really, but. Enough to grapple with it.”

“I’ll take that.” Pushing himself up off the couch, Frank grabs his guitar. “I’m going to bed. Let yourself out.”

“Goodnight, Frank,” Gerard calls as Frank walks away, his own feet not quite moving yet. Everything Frank does is just so  _ abrupt. _ Gerard is used to the slow sorting of paperwork and demos and negotiations, but all this, now that he’s up against Frank’s pace — he feels like he can’t keep up anymore. 

Frank doesn’t answer, but Gerard figures that’s better than being yelled at. He goes back and forth for a moment but ultimately decides against leaving a note on the counter, just slipping out silently through the door instead. Like he’d never even been there.

*

Mikey’s on him as soon as he’s through the office’s front door, which must mean it’s urgent. Normally, Mikey doesn’t wait around for anybody.

He says what Gerard has been dreading hearing all week. “Gabe needs to see you.”

“Yeah, okay.” There’s no fight left in Gerard. He heads down the hall, passing his office on the way and having to squash the urge to hide in there until the storm passes. In retrospect, he should have asked Mikey if he was getting fired. Mikey always knows.

The worst part of it all is that Gerard could have done more. He could’ve stayed up listening to demos until the morning sun was streaming through his windows, bloodshot eyes blinking at his laptop screen, but he didn’t. After he got home from Frank’s place, he just crashed, the sound of Frank’s guitar echoing in his dreams.

He could have an easy out. He could just tell Gabe he’s secured his last artist but is in the process of wearing him down. But the thing is, he doesn’t even  _ want _ to sign Frank to Dead Pegasus anymore. It would be wonderful to escape Gabe’s wrath, but there’s no way around how upset it would make Frank. Gerard can’t imagine Frank writing for anyone but himself. It’s the rawness of it that sets him apart, how even on recorded demos Frank’s music sounds like he’s just playing in the room with you.

Maybe that’s what music is missing. No interference. Just connection.

Halfway to Gabe’s office, Gerard makes a sharp left and heads towards the recording studios instead.

*

Frank is wearing nothing but flannel pajama bottoms and rubbing sleep out of his eyes when he answers his door. Gerard pointedly ignores the part of his brain that is endeared by it.

“It’s my day off, dude,” he says groggily. “So not cool.”

Gerard ignores his griping. It’s nearly ten in the morning; Frank should have his ass out of bed by now. “I brought you something,” he says, holding out his hand.

Frank looks down at the key dangling from Gerard’s grip and then back up at Gerard, plain confusion written all over his face. “Am I supposed to know what this means?”

“It’s the key to Dead Pegasus recording studio 1C,” Gerard explains. Frank stiffens immediately, so Gerard rushes on before he can get the wrong idea. “Which just so happens to be empty all day today. Do you know anyone who can work production equipment?”

The suspicious expression doesn’t clear, but Frank says, “Yeah, Shaun Simon. Hambone’s friend.”

“You should give him a call,” Gerard says. “And I’m just going to leave this key here. Whatever you decide to do with it, if something just so happens to get recorded in there, it’s out of my control.”

“Hang on, wait,” says Frank. Gerard’s hand is still outstretched, but Frank isn’t taking anything from it just yet. “You’re offering me free studio space for the day? Without a contract?”

“I’m not offering you anything,” Gerard says, telling himself over and over again that he is not going to regret this. “This is just a key.”

After another minute of intense standoff, Frank reaches up, and Gerard lets the key fall into his hands. Tersely, he says, “Thanks.”

“Nothing to thank me for.” Gerard turns to leave, but Frank’s hand on his arm stops him at the last second.

His eyes are serious. “Hey. Whatever does or doesn’t happen in the recording studio today, you should swing by sometime next week. To listen to something. Or not listen to something.”

Holding back his smile, Gerard agrees, “Yeah, alright. I think I could do that.”

*

Gerard does eventually make it to Gabe’s office, over an hour late and somehow not nearly as nervous as he should be. Gabe gives him a look that says he’s not going to forget Gerard’s tardiness but asks him to sit. They go through both contracts Gerard has managed to secure. Then Gerard surprises himself by not apologizing for the artist he’s missing, instead just saying that he did the best he could but was unable to find anyone suitable for the slot.

“What about the guy whose demo files you sent me?” Gabe asks, tapping his pen erratically against the desk.

“That guy?” Gerard shrugs, very carefully not thinking about the possibility of Frank down the hall so he doesn’t betray himself with a smile. “I don’t know. He just disappeared.”

Briefly, Gabe squints at him like he doesn’t believe it. Gerard offers his most innocent look back. But Gabe’s expression drops, and he says, “That’s a shame. Maybe someone else snatched him up before we could.”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, biting the inside of his cheek. “Maybe.”

In the end, Gabe reassigns the project to a different executive, which makes Gerard’s heart twist before he recognizes that it might be for the better. If he had to listen to any more demos, he’d likely lose whatever’s left of his mind. And even though this job sometimes drives him crazy, it’s much better than getting fired.

He shakes Gabe’s hand, and they go back to business as usual.

The key to recording studio 1C is on his desk at the end of the day. Gerard can’t fight back the smile anymore.

*

Eight days later, he gets a text from Frank around nine at night.  _ It’s finished. _

Gerard doesn’t bother texting back. He just drops the dishes he’d been washing in the sink, grabs his keys, and heads out the door. Frank yells, “It’s open!” when he knocks, so Gerard pushes his way inside to find Frank hunched over his laptop on the couch, fidgeting.

“Grab us a couple beers, would you?” Frank asks without turning to look at Gerard. Gerard complies; based on the state Frank is in, they’re going to need them.

Back in the living room, Gerard dawdles awkwardly for a second, wanting to sit next to Frank and see what he’s working on but also not wanting to overstep his boundaries and get kicked out. Thankfully, his answer presents itself as Frank absently pats the spot next to him on the sofa, not taking his eyes off of his laptop screen as he types with one hand.

Gerard sits down and opens a beer before handing it to him. Frank accepts it with a grateful little nod, but he still doesn’t say anything until Gerard prompts, “What are you doing?”

“Putting it online,” Frank answers, still typing.

“The whole album?” Gerard says, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. It’s just that, well — this is  _ Frank _ they’re talking about.

“If you can even call it one. It’s only eight tracks.” Frank says it like it’s no big deal, but Gerard can read the tense set of his shoulders and the guarded excitement on his face. Gerard gets it. He feels it too, has felt it since the morning he handed the studio key over. This is bigger than either of them.

“How much is it?” Gerard asks.

“Free.” Frank is typing with both hands now, beer situated between his thighs. “Anyone can download it. I did set up a page where people can donate to help compensate Shaun for his work, though.”

“Jesus,” Gerard breathes. “You’re a label’s worst nightmare.”

Frank seems to take that as a compliment, finally turning to look at Gerard and grinning. He looks devastatingly nervous, but so  _ alive. _ It’s breathtaking.

“Okay.” Frank squeezes his eyes shut, finger poised over the touchpad. “All I need to do is hit this button, and then it’s out there.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. And then it’s out there.”

Gerard crosses his fingers tight around his beer. Frank doesn’t move.

“Frank?”

Frank still doesn’t move.

Without a word, Gerard sets his beer down on the floor and picks up Frank’s free hand to hold instead. The weight of Frank’s gaze settles on him, but Gerard keeps his eyes on the screen. Beneath the tracklist, he notices an acknowledgment section, but all it says is:  _ Thank you. You know who you are. I owe you more than I’ll ever be able to admit. _

He squeezes Frank’s hand, and Frank clicks the button.

The screen turns black save for the green loading circle going around and around in the middle. They both watch it with wide eyes, hands clamped in a death grip together on Frank’s lap. Several minutes pass before the screen turns back to white, now displaying the message  _ Upload complete. _

“Oh, god,” Frank whispers. “What now?”

Gerard turns to gently kiss the side of Frank’s forehead, pleasantly surprised when he relaxes into it. He’s not sure if the pounding he hears is Frank’s heart or his own. 

“I don’t know,” Gerard says, and holds on tight. 

Whatever comes next, he won’t let go.

 


End file.
